jamie
03-18-2026, 12:27 PM
jamie
The light dims. He can tell it even with how tightly he’s pressed his eyes closed. She had always been more powerful than he could fathom, Beyza. And wasn’t that what had attracted the shadow-mare to her? That power? He can feel the skin blistering along the side left exposed to that light. Perhaps this is why his mother had not loved him the same way: he is fragile, weak, powerless beyond his ability to gather fog around him like a cloak. And what power lies in that?
He makes no attempt to rise from his knees. He does not open his eyes. He simply lays his weary head against the cave wall and whimpers. He had not meant to upset her. He is only a child, see, and there are so many things he does not understand.
He does not lift his head until she speaks again and he blinks those big yellow eyes in her direction, though it still pains him to do so. Surely he has apologized to her for his cowardice, his inability to look at her plainly, his weakness. This weakness that keeps him still on his knees while she speaks in past tense.
She had idolized him? He doesn’t understand. He frowns, though it is near impossible to tell what expressions that featureless face makes. Rather than force himself to his feet, he allows his back legs to buckle so that he is lying, propped against the cool rock, staring though his eyes burn.
“I don’t understand,” he wheezes, ribs heaving with the tremendous effort of drawing in a breath.
Aha! He realizes quite suddenly that it is a dream. It must be! This is the only explanation for the strange way she speaks. Yes, he has been so desperate for her friendship that his feeble brain is merely playing a trick on him by telling him that it had been her who had idolized him! Relief floods through him, so heady he almost laughs. Instead, he only wheezes.
“No,” he tells her, though it isn’t true, “no, Beyza.” He draws in a long, raspy breath and exhales it slow, grateful for the way the lungs twinge in protest. “We are friends, aren’t we?” And he grins.
He makes no attempt to rise from his knees. He does not open his eyes. He simply lays his weary head against the cave wall and whimpers. He had not meant to upset her. He is only a child, see, and there are so many things he does not understand.
He does not lift his head until she speaks again and he blinks those big yellow eyes in her direction, though it still pains him to do so. Surely he has apologized to her for his cowardice, his inability to look at her plainly, his weakness. This weakness that keeps him still on his knees while she speaks in past tense.
She had idolized him? He doesn’t understand. He frowns, though it is near impossible to tell what expressions that featureless face makes. Rather than force himself to his feet, he allows his back legs to buckle so that he is lying, propped against the cool rock, staring though his eyes burn.
“I don’t understand,” he wheezes, ribs heaving with the tremendous effort of drawing in a breath.
Aha! He realizes quite suddenly that it is a dream. It must be! This is the only explanation for the strange way she speaks. Yes, he has been so desperate for her friendship that his feeble brain is merely playing a trick on him by telling him that it had been her who had idolized him! Relief floods through him, so heady he almost laughs. Instead, he only wheezes.
“No,” he tells her, though it isn’t true, “no, Beyza.” He draws in a long, raspy breath and exhales it slow, grateful for the way the lungs twinge in protest. “We are friends, aren’t we?” And he grins.
so darkness i became
@
Beyza